Chapter 2: Probation

Thud. Thunk. Rubber against linoleum. It was the grand entrance I never wanted to make. My double-soled platform boots echoed down the long corridor of the Pre-med administration building, turning heads as curious students rubbernecked toward the commotion. More than a year had passed since I last stepped into this building, back when I was a wide-eyed high school student.

My eyes landed on the jeweled bezels of a watch I could never have afforded—a gift from someone I would never see again.

Ten minutes until my meeting with the Dean. I squinted up at the portrait of Abraham Ozler—the so-called Founding Father of Medicine—and noted the bare hands clutching a scalpel. So much for hygiene. Those gloveless fingers probably spread more bacterial infections than they prevented.

At the Dean’s office, I checked in with his assistant, a blonde with striking cherry-red nails that matched her lipstick. Her pilates-sculpted figure swayed in a tight pencil skirt as she greeted me. She was one of those “Gen In-Betweeners”—not quite Gen Z, but with enough face collagen to look younger than a millennial. 

“Dr. Metsler’s ready for you.” 

I entered the office and a solidly built man in his sixties, sporting a loosely buttoned jacket and graying sideburns, greeted me. He looked like the Indiana Jones of Pritzker Pre-Med, minus the whip and fedora—or maybe the whip was in his tongue? I shifted my weight slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Prin De Sangue.” He extended his hand. “Dean Aiden Metsler. Pleasure to meet you.” Pressured speech. Tie slightly askew. He wasn’t an academic professor moonlighting as a treasure hunter—he was a prototypical surgeon serving as my pre-med advisor. Fantastic.

Before I could speak, he continued, “Valedictorian at Coronado Prep. Ozler Scholar. Impressive.” His hands brushed up against a pile of papers. “I’m still working on my speech for the white coat ceremony tomorrow. It’s being held at the Fitzgerald winery. Ever been?”

“No, sir,” I answered. The Ozlers, a legacy donor family, owned the winery. So cliché. “Their Chablis costs more than what I make in a month.”

He let out a practiced laugh—too polished. “I remember scraping by in college. Speaking of finances, I noticed your scholarship funds don’t cover your entire tuition. You've got a loan for that?”

“Yeah, it’s covered. I’m working at a bistro downtown,” I replied casually. No need to mention the extra mouth I was feeding—a homeless one. That detail wasn’t his business. “We’re actually catering the reception tomorrow.”

He cleared his throat—a subtle signal that my blue-collar side hustle didn’t interest him in the slightest. “Your scholarship arrangement is... unusual. Most students don’t defer funds for a year.” 

Figures. No one had informed him about my secret agreement with the college.  

“I’m not privy to all the details,” he continued, “but others in administration said your disappearance last year caused quite a stir. Frankly, you’re lucky we didn’t reassign your seat last fall.”

He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.

“Now, you’ll need to be the top ranked student in your class again—otherwise, we’ll have to revoke your scholarship. Consider this a probationary period. And it won’t be easy; this year, we’ve admitted the largest cohort of pre-meds from my alma mater in Boston.”

A lump formed in my throat. Maintaining a perfect GPA during high school had nearly destroyed me. And now my entire future depended on it.

I extended my hand with a toothy car salesman grin. “I’m excited for the challenge.” 

My abdomen tossed its contents like a salad. This wasn’t high school. This was Pritzker. The med school pipeline. The Hunger Games with highlighters and dissection equipment.

And I was already behind.

Let the games begin.

***

I walked out of his office, clutching my waist. For future check-ins, I’d remember to show up with an empty stomach.

My hands slipped on Herbie’s steering wheel, slick with sweat. At Pritzker, you did whatever it took to become the “Pritzker Pick”—the top-ranked student with first dibs on the best med schools. People skipped laundry, meals, even bathroom breaks to squeeze in more study time.

But I knew the secret sauce—mastering the cocktail of Adderall, Prozac, and Ambien.

Last year, I’d been there—dry-swallowing pharmaceutical sunshine like a human Pez dispenser.

Would I eventually spiral into depression like my mother did at Pritzker? Or lose my marbles like my aunt?

My shoes scuffed the pavement as I approached the apartment. The lights were off. Good. 

“You are the owner of all your actions.” Doya’s words echoed in my mind. I pictured myself in the Indonesian monastery’s garden, digging into the soil, as if connected to both nothing and everything. “Find out how your mother lived—break your curse with death.” 

I tossed my bag onto the bed and rushed into the kitchen. On top of the cupboard sat my stash—ziplock bags carefully labeled in English and Bahasa Indonesian. I pulled a few down, measured out small quantities, and turned on the stove.

***

It was almost midnight, and the kitchen smelled like a chocolate shop. As I was putting away the pralines I’d made, Eleanor walked in.

Her face lit up as the sweet aroma hit her. “Did I die and end up in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”

“Just making some chocolates,” I said curtly, fingers tightening around the mixing spoon.

The conversation with the dean about putting me on probation kept replaying in my mind—on a constant, exhausting loop.

“At midnight?” Her eyebrows rose.  

I didn’t owe her an explanation, but I gave one anyway. “Making chocolate helps me de-stress.”

She tilted her head. “Aren’t pre-med students always stressed?”

Point taken. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“I could use a pick-me-up after a ten-hour coding marathon,” she said, reaching for a chocolate.

I nudged her hand away. “You can’t have these… I mean, you probably wouldn’t like them.” I quickly sealed the batch in a small Tupperware. I hadn’t labeled this batch—rookie mistake. Otherwise, someone like Eleanor—already high on life—might end up high on my special recipe too. 

These weren’t ordinary chocolates—they were infused with a secret blend of monastery herbs that were more mystical than medicinal. Luckily, they  didn’t get flagged by the unibrow customs agent who rifled through my bag last week.

According to Doya, the wise woman from the Indonesian monastery, the herbs possessed remarkable properties—one of which, she claimed, was the ability to transcend time. A herbal time machine? Absurd. And yet, I couldn’t explain how I remembered conversations from years ago in perfect detail—or how I dreamt things that actually happened months later—after one of those chocolate nights.

“They’re bitter... low in sugar for my Keto diet.”

“I’m not a fan of healthy junk food, so… anyways, good night,” she said as I made a beeline for my room.

I thought back to those late-night chocolate batches in high school—Zara, Parker, and I huddled around the shared kitchen, laughing over melted chips and oddly-shaped chocolates.

But now, they were gone. Off to college. Out of state. Out of reach.

Were they still angry?

Did they think I was dead?

Or worse…

Did they simply not care?

All I knew was, I wasn’t here to make new friends.

This wasn’t an episode of Friends.

It was a classic urban transaction: coexist, compartmentalize, survive.

***